THE ALNWICK SUPERSTITION.
The time went on at Alnwick Hall just as it goes on everywhere, and
the two boys grew with it. It was autumn weather. Benja was a sturdy
gentleman of nearly four, strong and independent; George, a delicate
little fellow of nearly two, with fair curls and a bright rose-tint in
his cheeks.
Mr. Carleton St. John spent more time in London than was absolutely
demanded by his parliamentary duties, frequently remaining there when
the House was not sitting; and during his sojournings at the Hall, it
seemed that he never wanted an excuse for being away from home.
Shooting, fishing, coursing, hunting, riding about the land with his
steward, superintending improvements; presiding on the small
magisterial bench of Alnwick; going over to the county-town for
more important meetings; staying a day or two with bachelor
neighbours--with one plea or another, the master of Alnwick Hall was
nearly always out. What his wife thought of these frequent absences
cannot be told. A dark cloud often sat upon her brow, but things went
on smoothly between them, so far as the servants knew. It was
whispered that George St. John had not found in Charlotte Norris the
angel he had anticipated: how many men _have_ secured angels in
marrying for beauty?
It was autumn weather, I say--September; and Mr. St. John was at home.
He had thought of taking a walking-tour in Belgium during the month of
October; but an illness that attacked Mrs. St. John caused him to be
summoned to Alnwick.
A serious if not dangerous illness, and brought on by some unseemly
and violent fit of temper. Mr. St. John was growing accustomed to
hearing of these violent fits of temper now. Four or five he had heard
of during their married life, but the one described in the last
chapter was all he had himself witnessed. Some temporary hurt to her
child, through the carelessness of a servant, had this time caused it;
and the immediate result to herself was disastrous. Mr. St. John found
Mrs. Darling at the Hall, and Mr. Pym was in frequent attendance; but
she was already beginning to improve.
Mr. St. John sat on a bench on the grassy slope before the windows,
idly revelling in the calm beauty of the September day. The trees were
glowing with the warm tints of autumn; and the blue sky, flecked here
and there with delicate white clouds, seemed to rise to a wondrous and
beautiful height. The two children, attended by their nurses, were
gambolling in the park with the favourite dog, Brave: their shouts and
Brave's deep bark reaching the ears of Mr. St. John.
He was plunged in thought, as he sat--rather lazy thought. The
children before him, the sick wife upstairs, and the not very
comfortable state of affairs altogether, furnishing its chief themes.
It had carried him back to his second marriage. Caught by the beauty
of Charlotte Norris, he had rushed into the union headlong, giving
himself no time for proper deliberation; no time, in fact, to become
well acquainted with her. "Marry in haste, and repent at leisure," he
murmured to himself; and just then he became aware of the proximity of
Mrs. Darling. She was coming across the park, having walked to her own
house that morning, and back again. She was a great walker, enjoying
it thoroughly: and she came up with a merry smile on her bright and
still pretty face, as she nodded to her son-in-law.
"How idle you look, Mr. Carleton!" she exclaimed, as he made room for
her beside him. She generally called him by that name.
"I have felt idle lately, I think. Did you find all well at home?"
"Quite well. Mary Anne has the mumps; but she is subject to them. I
told her to lie in bed and rub hartshorn on her face. Is Charlotte
up?"
"I don't know. I have been sitting here these two hours."
"Mr. Pym said she might get up today for a short time, provided she
lay on the sofa. How those little ones are enjoying themselves."
She pointed to the park. Mr. St. John was also looking at the
children, to all appearance. His right elbow rested on the arm of the
bench; his hand supported his chin, and his eyes gazed out straight
before him. In reality he neither saw nor heard; he was buried just
then in the inward life of thought.
"What causes these illnesses of Charlotte?" he suddenly asked, without
altering his position. "This is the second time."
If ever there was a startled look on a woman's face, it was on Mrs.
Darling's then. "She is delicate, I think," was the answer given,
after a pause.
"I think not; not naturally so," dissented Mr. St. John, with
emphasis. "I hear of fits of temper, Mrs. Darling, so violent as to
suggest the idea of madness for the time being," he resumed. "That was
the source of this illness, I understand. The result was only a
natural consequence."
"Who told you that?" eagerly asked Mrs. Darling. "Mr. Pym?"
"No; Mr. Pym has never spoken a word to me on the subject in his life.
I mentioned it to him on the occasion of the other illness, ten months
ago; but he would not understand me--turned it off in an unmistakably
decisive manner."
Mrs. Darling bit her lips. That she was in some great and annoying
perplexity, none could doubt who saw her countenance; but she kept it
turned from Mr. Carleton.
"I have witnessed one of these scenes of violence myself," he resumed.
"I declare that I never was so alarmed in my life. I thought Charlotte
had suddenly become mad."
Mrs. Darling's lips grew white. But the revelation--that he had
witnessed this--did not come upon her by surprise: for Prance had told
her of it at the time.
"If I mention this to you now, Mrs. Darling, it is not done in the
light of a complaint. I married your daughter, and I must abide----"
he paused here, as if he would have altered or softened the phrase,
but went on with it immediately--"by the bargain. She is my wife; the
mistress of my house; and I have no wish that it should be otherwise:
but my object in speaking to you is, to inquire whether you can
suggest any means by which these violent attacks of temper can be
prevented."
Still there was no answer. Mrs. Darling looked cold, white,
frightened; and she turned her head further away than before.
"You have had a life's experience with her; you must know a great deal
more of this failing than I," resumed Mr. St. John. "Has she been
subject to it all her life?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Darling, speaking at last. "But not often. I speak
the truth in all sincerity, when I say that until she married I cannot
remember that she had been so put out more than three or four times.
It is an unhappy failing; I acknowledge it to be so; but it is over in
a minute, Mr. Carleton."
"But think of what it is for the minute! She might--she might kill
some one in one of them. I am sure she had no control whatever over
herself the day I saw her."
Mrs. Darling looked distressed, and spoke in pleading tones of excuse.
"She is always so sorry for it afterwards, Mr. Carleton; she is
repentant as a child. You are very sweet-tempered yourself, and
perhaps cannot make allowance for those who are otherwise," she added,
turning to him with a smile. "If you only knew how many thousands of
violent tempers there are in the world! Charlotte's is only one
amongst the number."
"That is not the question," he hastily replied. "I have said I am not
complaining of the fact, and I am vexed at having to speak to you at
all; I only wish to know whether they can be in any way prevented."
"I don't know of any. It is very stupid of Charlotte; very. One might
have thought her last illness would be a warning to her; and now this
one again! She will never have another child to live, if this is to go
on."
"It is not only the injury she does herself; there's the fear of her
doing injury to others. She might, I say, strike a fatal blow; she is
mad in these----"
"No, no; not that," interrupted Mrs. Darling. "Pray do not say so, Mr.
St. John. She is not mad."
"I am sorry to pain you. I mean, of course, that while the paroxysm is
upon her, she is no more capable of self-control than a woman
absolutely mad would be. If there were any means, any line of conduct
we could adopt, likely to act as a preventive, it should be tried. I
thought it possible you might have learnt how to check it in the past
years."
"I never knew yet that there was any effectual remedy for violent
temper. A clergyman will tell you it may be controlled by prayer; a
surgeon, by the help of drugs; but I suppose neither is certain always
to answer. I had a servant once, a very good and valuable servant too,
who would fly into the most frightful passion once or twice a year,
and break all the crockery."
Mrs. Darling spoke with a laugh, as if she would make light of the
whole. It jarred on the feelings of Mr. St. John, and he knit his
brow.
"Then there's nothing at all that you know of to be suggested, Mrs.
Darling?"
"I really do not. But I think they will wear out of themselves: as
Charlotte grows older, she must grow wiser. I will take an opportunity
of speaking to her. And she is so sweet-tempered in a general way, Mr.
Carleton, though a little haughty, perhaps, that these few lapses may
surely be pardoned."
Mr. St. John made no answering remark. He rose and stretched himself,
and was moving away. Mrs. Darling detained him with a question.
"How did you learn that this illness was so brought on? Did Honour
tell you?"
"No! I was not aware that Honour knew of it."
"Neither am I aware that she does. I mentioned Honour, because I
should suppose her to be more of a confidential servant to you than
are the rest, and might acquaint you with what takes place here in
your absence."
Mr. St. John brought his clear truthful eyes to bear steadfastly on
those looking at him. He was open, honourable, unsuspicious as the
day; but he could not help wondering whether the words concealed any
double meaning.
"I have no confidential servant, Mrs. Darling. If I had, I should not
allow him, or her, to repeat tales to me of the home of which my wife
is mistress. When Honour speaks to me, it is of Benja; and all the
world might hear, patience permitting, for I believe she takes him to
be a cherub without wings. The one to tell me of it was Charlotte."
"_Charlotte!_"
The echo fell upon empty air. Mr. St. John had turned off in the
direction of the children.
"Is it this that has been worrying you in London?" asked Mrs. Darling,
following him.
"Worrying me in London? Nothing has been worrying me in London."
"Has it not? You were looking so ill when you got down here: thin, and
worn, and changed. I said nothing, for fear of alarming Charlotte."
"I have not felt well for some little time. But it is really my health
that is in fault, Mrs. Darling; not worry."
"You were worn out with the long session: those late hours do fag a
man. This country air will restore you."
"I hope so," he replied in a dreamy tone, and his eyes had a far-off
dreamy look in them. "It would not be well just yet for yon little
fellow to be the master of Alnwick."
Mrs. Darling thought nothing of the remark: perhaps George St. John
thought as little. It was an indisputable fact that he was looking
thin, ill, not so strong as he used to look: but many men, wearied
with the late hours, the wear and tear of a London season, look so
every autumn, and grow robust again by spring.
The fact was, he began to suspect that his health was failing. And
when a man, neither a coddler nor a hypochondriac, suspects this, rely
upon it, it is time he looked into the cause. Mr. St. John was
careless of himself, as men mostly are; a year ago he would have
laughed outright at the idea of going to a doctor. But the feeling of
intense weariness, of almost utter want of strength, which had come
upon him in London, coupled with a rapid wasting away, and all without
any cause, had forced him to wonder what was the matter. He had made
an engagement for a walking-tour, and then doubted whether his
strength would be equal to it. That somewhat aroused him; not to
alarm, more to a curiosity as to what could be wrong; and close upon
that, came the summons to Alnwick.
For a day or two after his return, he felt refreshed, stronger, better
in all ways. But the momentary renovation faded again, and by the time
he had been a week at Alnwick he felt weaker than he had felt at all.
The day previous to this conversation with Mrs. Darling, he spoke to
Mr. Pym, telling that gentleman that he thought he wanted tonics.
"Tonics!" repeated Mr. Pym. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing that I know of. There it is. I haven't an ailment in the
world, and yet I feel so weak and get so thin. It seems a sort of
wasting away."
A recollection, sharp as a needle, and causing a great deal more pain,
darted into Mr. Pym's mind as he looked at him. Other of the St. Johns
of Alnwick had wasted away without apparent cause; wasted to death.
"We'll soon set you right again," said he, a shade more quickness in
his speech than usual. "You shall have some tonics."
The tonics came; and Mr. St. John took them. He tried other means;
cold bathing, driving out, living almost in the open air; but he did
not grow stronger.
"Didn't my father waste away like this?" he suddenly said to Mr. Pym,
one day.
"Oh, pooh, no!" quite angrily replied the surgeon. "Your father had a
peck of troubles upon him--and I'm sure you can't remember anything
about him, for you were only five years old when he died."
George St. John laughed. "You need not fear frightening me, Pym. I
think he did waste away; but that's no reason, you know, why I should
do so."
He said nothing to his wife of this feeling of indisposition, or that
he was consulting Mr. Pym. This was from no particular wish of
suppressing it; more, that he really did not think it sufficiently
important to speak about. But it came to her knowledge incidentally.
She grew strong again, and was sitting on the slopes one afternoon
with her embroidery, quiet, gentle, smiling, as if not a cloud of
anger had ever distorted her fair features, when she saw Mr. Pym
approach and enter the house. It suddenly occurred to her that she had
so seen him once or twice lately, and had wondered, in a passing way,
what he wanted. Certainly his visits were not to her now.
"What can it be that he comes for?" she said aloud, pausing in her
work, and gazing at the door through which Mr. Pym had disappeared.
If the question was not addressed to air, it must have been meant for
Benja, that young gentleman being the only person within sight and
hearing. He was sitting astride on the arm of the bench at Mrs. St.
John's elbow, absorbed in a new picture-book that Honour had bought
him, and teasing Mrs. St. John's patience out with his demands that
she should admire its marvels.
"Mr. Pym comes for papa," said quick Benja.
"For papa!" she repeated. "Nonsense, Benja! Papa's not ill. He's
looking very thin, but I am sure he's not ill."
"Mr. Pym comes for him, and he sends him physic," persisted Benja.
"For I was in the room yesterday, mamma, and heard them talking."
Mrs. St. John thought this rather singular. Presently she saw Mr. Pym
and her husband come out and go strolling down the avenue together.
The latter soon turned back.
"Benja, go and tell papa that I want him."
Mr. St. John caught up Benja when the boy met him, kissed him, fondly
put him down again, and the two came on together; Benja leaping and
holding his papa's hand. Mrs. St. John was watching with compressed
lips. Even still she could not bear to see the love of her husband for
Benja. It was very foolish of her, very wrong, and she knew herself
that it was so: but, strive against it as she would, as she _did_, the
feeling kept its mastery over her.
"George, what is the matter with you?" she asked, as her husband sat
down beside her, and Benja ran off with his pictures. "Why does Mr.
Pym come?"
"I think he comes partly because he likes the walk," was the answer,
given with a smile. "I asked him for some tonics during the time he
was attending you, and he constituted me a patient directly. It's the
way with doctors."
"Don't you feel well?"
"I don't feel strong. It's nothing, I suppose. You need not look
alarmed, Charlotte."
Mrs. St. John was looking more surprised than alarmed She wondered her
husband had concealed it, she said, half reproachfully.
"My dear, there was no concealment in the case. I felt languid, and
spoke to Pym: that was all. It was not worth mentioning."
"You have no complaint, George?"
"None whatever, that I know of."
"And are in no pain?"
"None."
"Then it can't be anything serious," she said, reassured.
"Of course it can't. Unless any one chooses to look at it ominously. I
accuse Pym of doing so, and he retorts by wanting to know if I think
him superstitious. There's an old belief abroad, you must know,
Charlotte, that the St. Johns of Alnwick never live to see their
thirty-third birthday."
She looked up at him. He was speaking half jestingly, half seriously;
with a smile, but not a gay one, on his lips.
"But that's not true, George?"
"As true as most of such sayings are, invented by old women over their
tea-cups. It need not alarm either of us, Charlotte."
"But I mean, it is not true that such a belief is abroad?"
"Oh, _that's_ true enough. Ask Pym. A great many of us have died just
about that age; there's no denying it; and I presume that this has
given rise to the popular fancy."
"What have they died, of?"
"Some of one thing, some of another. A large proportion of the whole
have fallen in battle. My great-grandfather died early, leaving seven
little sons. Three of them were taken in childhood; the other four
lived to see thirty, but not one, of them saw thirty-three. I imagine
that the premature death of so large a number of sons must have
chiefly given rise to the superstition. Any way, there's no denying
the fact that the St. Johns of Alnwick have not been long-lived."
"And the St. Johns of Castle Wafer?"
"It does not apply to them. Why, Isaac St. John is now all but fifty.
It is owing to this mortality that Alnwick has been so often held by a
minor. The Hall came to me when I was five years old."
"But George"--and she spoke hesitatingly and wistfully--"you _don't_
think there's anything in it?"
"Of course I don't. Should I be telling you this gossip if I did?"
She thought not, either. She glanced at his fresh complexion, so
bright and clear; at the rose-red on his cheeks, speaking, apparently,
of health; and her mind grew easy, and she laughed with him.
"George! you are now thirty-three!"
"No. I shall be thirty-three next May, if I live until then."
"If you live till then," she echoed. "Does that imply a doubt of it in
your own mind?"
"Not at all. I dare say I am in no more danger of dying than
others--than Mr. Pym--than old Dr. Graves--than any man you like
to think of. In one sense we are all in danger of it, danger
continually; and, Charlotte, when any circumstance brings this fact to
our minds--for we forget it too much--I think it should serve to make
us very regardful of each other, more cautious to avoid inflicting
pain on those we love."
His words and tone conveyed a pointed meaning. She raised her eyes
inquiringly.
"Subdue those fits of temper for my sake, Charlotte," he whispered,
letting his hand fall on hers. "You don't know how they pain me. I
might recall to you their unseemliness, I might urge the sad example
they give the children; but I would rather ask it by your love for me.
A little effort of will; a little patient self-control, and you would
subdue them."
"I will, George, I will," she answered, with earnest, willing
acquiescence. And there was a look that told of resolution in her
strange and dreamy eyes, as they seemed to gaze before her into a
far-off vision of the future.
And all in a moment a thought rose up within her--a conviction, if
you will--that this fancy, belief, superstition--call it what you
please--of the premature deaths of the masters of Alnwick, must have
been the secret and still unexplained cause of her mother's opposition
to the match.